He basks, for a moment, in that joined presence, in the ease of finding music an aid and not just the weapon it also is, for Lan Zhan's clan, perched as egrets in the snows of their wintertime mountain peaks. Where the brilliance of it, sunlight cutting down in shafts through the clouds overhead and the dusts raised to swirl lazily through air grown softer, is that for a moment, light feels solid. Like he could reach out a hand, capture the length of it, wrap his fingers around that shaft, and slide.
Warmth, captured. Light, held close, then left to go its way again, to disappear and reemerge, bold and triumphant, with every cracking dawn.
He startles in that softness, the tired a pleasant nudge into his joints, the lassitude of fulfillment for now, an itch scratched to leave his skin reddened but gladdened for being alive. Lan Zhan pulls, and there are words as the land thrums beneath them, as people settle without knowing why it was they had not settled.
Come. He smiles, dusk creeping over a horizon to blue so dark it fades to blackness, and he is the night, the warmth of the summer's evening, where the insects sing and the frogs carol and the river burbles on, impatient and implacable. Wine, and thirst leaves his mouth parched and dry, and he smiles, fondly, but doesn't laugh as he once would have.
"Of course, Lan Zhan." To come, for wine or companionship or whatever feel between them in the ache of a smaller success weighed against the greater joy of living things, and the sons who wait, safe for now. Always for now, in a world where monsters live in the open, and kindness hides in shadows, and for now can be enough in small stretches. Like the walk to the teahouse, the winehouse, one and the same: the only place for stories and drinking and dining on small dishes, up three steps from the street they walk down. Lan Zhan holding to his wrist, and Wei Wuxian twisting his hand, until the fall of Lan sleeves swallows the curve of a hand that bends to turn and hold wrist in turn, much as it breaks the sanctity of Lan Zhan's circled grip.
"Tell me you'll try the tea, however much it might disappoint. They're bound to have something pickled, some rice—" He teases in degrees, eyes flicking around to watch with a master with known benevolence expecting an illusion to shatter. The town holds. The people hold. It is not resentment that rides highest, and he smiles again, a sigh without sighing. Looks to Lan Zhan as they mount the stairs as one more impossible task to master, unwavering.
"Some vegetables cooked in simple sauce, ah?" Dreams, perhaps, because they'll all be turnips and radishes, and he'll have to stare at them with hideous nostalgia and choke down the memory of them before he'd even eat.
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Warmth, captured. Light, held close, then left to go its way again, to disappear and reemerge, bold and triumphant, with every cracking dawn.
He startles in that softness, the tired a pleasant nudge into his joints, the lassitude of fulfillment for now, an itch scratched to leave his skin reddened but gladdened for being alive. Lan Zhan pulls, and there are words as the land thrums beneath them, as people settle without knowing why it was they had not settled.
Come. He smiles, dusk creeping over a horizon to blue so dark it fades to blackness, and he is the night, the warmth of the summer's evening, where the insects sing and the frogs carol and the river burbles on, impatient and implacable. Wine, and thirst leaves his mouth parched and dry, and he smiles, fondly, but doesn't laugh as he once would have.
"Of course, Lan Zhan." To come, for wine or companionship or whatever feel between them in the ache of a smaller success weighed against the greater joy of living things, and the sons who wait, safe for now. Always for now, in a world where monsters live in the open, and kindness hides in shadows, and for now can be enough in small stretches. Like the walk to the teahouse, the winehouse, one and the same: the only place for stories and drinking and dining on small dishes, up three steps from the street they walk down. Lan Zhan holding to his wrist, and Wei Wuxian twisting his hand, until the fall of Lan sleeves swallows the curve of a hand that bends to turn and hold wrist in turn, much as it breaks the sanctity of Lan Zhan's circled grip.
"Tell me you'll try the tea, however much it might disappoint. They're bound to have something pickled, some rice—" He teases in degrees, eyes flicking around to watch with a master with known benevolence expecting an illusion to shatter. The town holds. The people hold. It is not resentment that rides highest, and he smiles again, a sigh without sighing. Looks to Lan Zhan as they mount the stairs as one more impossible task to master, unwavering.
"Some vegetables cooked in simple sauce, ah?" Dreams, perhaps, because they'll all be turnips and radishes, and he'll have to stare at them with hideous nostalgia and choke down the memory of them before he'd even eat.